


Sure

by yeaka



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Ficlet, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, PWP, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 05:50:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12450915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: After another exhilarating practice, Chris takes JJ’s help.





	Sure

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Yuri on Ice or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

After a long practice—especially one crowded with so many worthy competitors—Christophe always needs a moment. He heads straight to the washroom, where the mirrors seem to fog with his mere entrance. He splashes cold water onto his face in front of them, but it doesn’t do much to quench the interest boiling inside him. His eyes lose their focus, and behind them he sees the gorgeous figure of Victor Nikiforov dancing a tight circle around his new protégée. Christophe remembers Yuuri Katsuki twisting to try and match his mentor’s bristling sensuality, arms extended and shirt riding up, a thin streak of sheer _alpha skin_ all on display for Christophe’s hungry gaze. Then the others come tumbling in—Phichit Chulanont bent over to lace up his skates, pert ass thrust out in the open, Otabek Altin shrugging on his costume in the locker room, unbothered with who sees, even Jean-Jacques Leroy working up enough of a sweat to roll his sleeves up high enough to show off intricate tattoos. Just thinking of it snakes a little moan past Christophe’s lips, and he stifles it with a hand over his mouth, his own reflection flushing dark and hot. This is why he _loves_ the rink.

Well, a part of it. The sport itself is intoxicating, the competitors’ invigorating pheromones only a pleasant bonus. He’s so lost in the lush memories that he doesn’t hear the door, only the footsteps that follow, and the rich, pine scent that comes with it. Then Jean-Jacques’ tanned face appears in the mirror, strangely devoid of its usual smirk. 

As Christophe turns to greet his company, Jean-Jacques’ already asking, “You okay?”

Through a slight flicker of confusion, Christophe answers, “Of course.” And he grins to show it, working hard to keep his eyes on Jean-Jacques’ face. Done back up in casual gear and his red jacket, Jean-Jacques’ toned body is obscured, but Christophe knows every mouth-watering line and curve that lies beneath. Jean-Jacques’ cutting sense of humour and egotistical attitude bother Christophe less than the others, but maybe that’s because Christophe tends to focus on... _other_ things.

And there’s genuine care in Jean-Jacques’ eyes now, when he says, “It must be hard, being out there when you’re... well, an omega.”

Christophe knows a few friends who would probably have a fit over that statement. But he just keeps his casual grin and invites: “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Jean-Jacques mutters, like Christophe just agreed to an unspoken but obvious taboo. He lifts one long hand to brush back through his dark hair, gaze flickering away like this is difficult. But then he focus on Christophe again and says, full of concern, “Going into heat like that in the middle of the rink can’t be fun.” Before Christophe’s eyebrows can lift—because his heats have never been anything _but_ fun—Jean-Jacques finishes, “Look, I just wanted to say that if you ever need a hand out there, I’m here.” And he suddenly pulls it all together, looking very much the tall, dark, and thoroughly handsome alpha that he is, ready to be a rock for anyone that needs it. 

Christophe doesn’t need anyone protecting him. But he certainly _likes_ it, and he’s grinning slyly before he can stop himself. He gives Jean-Jacques another once over, even though he doesn’t have to—he knows what’s there and _loves_ it—and then he takes a step forward, deliberately wavering, and swoons, like he’s a delicate flower lost in a storm: “Well, I have been having trouble concentrating lately...”

“I knew it,” Jean-Jacques hisses, his accent thickening as his eyes all but glaze over. “It looked like you were practically having an orgasm out there! Look, I mean it, whatever you need—”

Christophe begs, “Kiss me,” before Jean-Jacques’ even finished. In the next second, Jean-Jacques’ _on him_ , up against him so fast that he’s thrust hard into the sink. It cuts into his upper thighs, but Christophe just relishes the burn. He lets his hands rise to clutch at Jean-Jacques’ jacket, while one of Jean-Jacques’ hands cradles his cheek and the other wraps tight around his waist. Jean-Jacques’ lips press into his, smooth but a little chapped, and then Jean-Jacques tilts his head, and Christophe opens with a moan, letting Jean-Jacques’ long tongue slither into his mouth.

He always thought Jean-Jacques would be a good kisser. But now he _knows_ , and it’s better than Christophe would’ve even guessed—Jean-Jacques kisses with unadulterated alpha _power_ , claiming Christophe so thoroughly that it’s an effort not to pull back and present himself for the taking. Instead, he savours the searing kiss for what it is, sucking on Jean-Jacques’ tongue right back and thrusting his own into the mix. They share a string of wet, messy, fiery kisses, and then Christophe whines between their mouths, and Jean-Jacques pulls back enough for Christophe to whisper, “ _Fuck me._ ” 

He can feel the shiver snake down Jean-Jacques’ spine. He can see the hunger that sparks in Jean-Jacques’ eyes. Christophe’s never had an alpha turn him down before, no matter how fast he went, and Jean-Jacques doesn’t break that record. He repeats, “Whatever you need,” and gives Christophe another forceful kiss.

Christophe doesn’t need to lift a finger. Jean-Jacques pulls back towards the stalls, an arm still locked around his waist and tugging him along—Christophe’s pushed into the nearest stall and left against the divider while Jean-Jacques fumbles back with the lock, barely even looking at it. It won’t matter. Christophe’s fooled around enough in washrooms to know their scents and noises will give them away. It doesn’t stop him. He just grabs Jean-Jacques’ jacket and pulls Jean-Jacques closer again. Jean-Jacques rewards him with another kiss but stops to fiddle with a zippered pocket. Christophe recognizes the crinkling sound that follows without having to look. He doesn’t ask, just tosses his arms around Jean-Jacques’s shoulders and jumps—Jean-Jacques catches him perfectly and pins him hard against the divider. It’s barely strong enough to take it. Jean-Jacques supports Christophe’s weight and traces around his waist to find his fly, while he occupies himself with Jean-Jacques’ busy mouth. 

The rush of cold air as his trousers are rolled down his hips doesn’t bother Christophe—the hands that follow are more than hot enough to warm him up again. Jean-Jacques grabs both his cheeks and squeezes them, kneading the round flesh and groaning into Christophe’s mouth. It makes Christophe wonder if Jean-Jacques’ ever stared at his ass during practice—or better yet, during his routine. He designed his program specifically so that alphas like this _would_ look, and want, and eventually touch. Jean-Jacques doesn’t seem to be taking anything for granted. Christophe can feel the latex condom held between Jean-Jacques’ fingers, but Jean-Jacques doesn’t pull back to use it until he’s had his fill of Christophe’s rear. 

As much as Christophe wants to hold Jean-Jacques’ cock in his hands—wants to squeeze it, stroke it, _lick it_ and feel it down his throat and up his channel—he waits. He keeps his grip on Jean-Jacques’s shoulders, holding himself up. He nips at Jean-Jacques’ bottom lip and whines instead, “ _Please_ ,” although he’s not sure it’s come out in English. Perhaps with Jean-Jacques, he should stick to French. So many say it’s the language of _love_.

Jean-Jacques understands the language of a ripe omega in need, and he swears and finally reaches back for his own jeans, jerking down the fly. Christophe parts their mouths just enough to see that Jean-Jacques’ boxers are bright red, and then he watches in awe as a long, thick cock is drawn out, pulsing in Jean-Jacques’ meaty hand. It looks so good that Christophe mewls and bucks forward, making it slide between his thighs, even though his own cock is still trapped in the mess of his rolled-down underwear and trousers. Jean-Jacques probably knows better than to touch it. Touching an omega in heat can lead to a slew of sticky, messy orgasms, and they’ll never get out of here with any dignity if Christophe is allowed to come as much as he wants to. So he doesn’t try to touch himself either, just waits for the single, greater one that he knows Jean-Jacques will give him. 

Jean-Jacques’ already got the package open, and he rolls on the condom almost as quickly and smoothly as Christophe could—although Christophe usually prefers to do it with his mouth. It’s a shame to cover up the glorious sight with translucent cream, but Jean-Jacques’ a _catch_ , and there’s no telling where he’s been. He thrusts himself up against Christophe, pushing between his legs, without even stopping to see if he’s wet. An omega in heat almost always is. And Christophe is _always_ ready. By the time Christophe begs an alpha to fuck him, he’s usually dripping and dilated enough to take his largest plug.

There’s no plug today. Jean-Jacques just shoves forward, and the head pops inside—Christophe tosses his head back to shriek with ecstasy, while Jean-Jacques grinds his mammoth dick forward. If it were any bigger, maybe Christophe really would’ve needed fingering. As it is, he can _just_ take it, and he _loves_ it; he squeezes around it to prove that, and Jean-Jacques lets out a filthy moan. Christophe’s cock is rock hard between his thighs, leaking into his briefs. He’s sure Jean-Jacques doesn’t need reminding, but he still pants as soon as he can, “Fuck me _hard_.”

Jean-Jacques listens. He pulls himself nearly all the way out, only to slam back in again, so harshly that the stall rattles, echoing through the tiny space, but lost under their groans. Christophe finds Jean-Jacques’ mouth again and locks onto it, just because he knows that if he doesn’t, he’ll scream loud enough to bring the whole rink in. Maybe his pheromones will do that anyway. He can smell just how pleased Jean-Jacques is, and he’s _ecstatic_. He shoves himself back onto Jean-Jacques’ cock as much as he can, but mostly Jean-Jacques pounds into him, fucking him without mercy.

Christophe knew it would be good. He always wondered what it would be like to be taken _JJ Style_ , to have someone who fancied himself a king, and Jean-Jacques lives up to the hype. He finds the right spot in no time and pummels it, one hand digging into Christophe’s hip while the other explores Christophe’s body. It darts under his shirt, running up to skim his pecs, pinching one nipple—Christophe would claw Jean-Jacques’ shirt right off if he could. He knows Jean-Jacques looks _damn good_ naked. But there’s no room for that, and he doesn’t want to risk letting go—doesn’t want to end the relentless assault for even a second. So he contents himself with just Jean-Jacques’ mouth while Jean-Jacques feels him up and fucks him deep. Even without his cock being touched, he can feel himself racing to the finish line. It takes tremendous will power to hold himself back.

But Jean-Jacques goes and shatters that by finally running down to clutch Christophe’s shaft. With just a few strokes, perfectly timed to the dick thrusting into his ass, Christophe is arching up and crying out. He bursts in Jean-Jacques’ hand, seeing stars as his orgasm rolls into him, toe-curling and satisfying. His whole body runs taut with it, ass twitching around Jean-Jacques’ girth. Jean-Jacques groans into his mouth, and Christophe pushes through the light-headed dizziness to squeeze it for all he’s worth—he wants to drag Jean-Jacques right down with him. 

It works. Jean-Jacques roars when he comes like some primal animal, his gravelly voice thundering over Christophe’s sweat-slicked skin. Jean-Jacques gives a few final thrusts, fiercer than ever, and all Christophe can think about is what it’d feel like without the condom—with this alpha’s seed soaking his insides. He’d take it all, if he could. He’s always been greedy that way. He’s already thinking about licking out the condom, although maybe it’d be just as easy to push Jean-Jacques down and suck out another round...

On the last thrust, Jean-Jacques pulls out all the way. It leaves Christophe leaking his own natural lubrication, feeling slick and achingly empty—he should’ve brought a plug with him; he doesn’t know why he ever goes anywhere without one. Then Jean-Jacques’ slumping against him and slowly sinking down. Christophe falls with him, pulled almost gently into his lap. They sit there in a reeking heap of laboured breath and rumpled clothes. Jean-Jacques’ too busy recovering from his high to smirk, but he’s still got that look about him that he always has when he wins a high score. Christophe would give him that. Christophe could _definitely_ see doing this again.

He purrs a languid, “Thank you,” and _then_ Jean-Jacques grins, like he’s just rescued some poor damsel from a heat-ridden dragon. Christophe lets him think that.

Except that a knock sounds on the door of their stall, and they both startle. One sniff of the air tells Christophe that it’s another alpha—and just who that alpha is—before the door yanks open. Evidently, Jean-Jacques was too distracted to lock it properly. The little metal latch barely protests. And Victor stands in its wake, smiling tolerantly down at them. Jean-Jacques’ cheeks flush pink. Christophe just waves.

“Added another alpha to your roster, Chris?” Victor chuckles. Christophe shrugs helplessly and doesn’t bother mentioning that for once, this one really wasn’t his fault. 

Jean-Jacques recovers and answers for him, “I thought I’d help out—personally, _I_ don’t think it’s a fair win if you let your competitors drop out over heats.” His voice has that odd tone, unique to him, that could be a jibe or a joke. Victor just looks at him, then Christophe, then _laughs_.

“Heat?” Victor snorts, while Christophe purposely snuggles up to Jean-Jacques to soothe the inevitable realization. “If Chris was in heat, you never would’ve made it to the washroom—we’d all be having a giant orgy right on the ice.” It’s hard not to preen at that. Sometimes, Christophe does idly daydream about performing during heat—surely he’d bring the judges to their knees. But he’d bring down the rest of the audience too, and he probably wouldn’t make it through any of his jumps—he’d probably abandon even his most beloved routines in favour of skating over to the closest alpha and rip his pretty costume in his rush to be sated. 

Jean-Jacques looks at Victor in shock, then splutters to Christophe, “No, but—but you were—”

“I _am_ sorry, darling,” Christophe slurs, nuzzling into Jean-Jacques’ cheek. “I’m afraid that was just the choreography... and my charisma, of course. But you were so tempting with your kind offer that I just couldn’t refuse.” He winks for effect. He’s never seen Jean-Jacques look so flabbergasted.

Jean-Jacques opens his mouth but just shuts it again.

Christophe gives him another wet kiss. It’s met with no resistance. Then Christophe sighs and begrudgingly pushes to his feet, because it’s over, and the men’s room won’t stay empty forever. He pulls his pants back up despite the mess his own juices make of his underwear, and he gives Jean-Jacques the most smoldering look he can muster, insisting, “And I’ll extend the same one to you, too. If you ever need to let a load off, you know who to call.” He makes an exaggerated show of licking his lips.

Victor shakes his head indulgently, wandering off towards the sinks. Christophe gives Jean-Jacques a final wink before he follows, prompting his long-time rival, “So, Victor, have you had any fun today...?”


End file.
